


Smoked

by UsagiShipper



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, C137cest, Citadel of Ricks, Consensual Underage Sex, Drama, Heavy Angst, Hooker!Morty, Implicit romance, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Novelization, Novelized, One Shot, Pillow Talk, Sex Aftermath, Short, Short One Shot, Underage Drug Use, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, after Sex talk, description, feels like a novel, implicit attraction, lots and lots of drama, novelized writing, rickmorty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 16:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UsagiShipper/pseuds/UsagiShipper
Summary: In Citadel, a hooker Morty and a Rick chat after sex, revealing their personalities and frustrations... as well as their possible affection towards each other."All the smoke provided from cigarettes are indefinite forms that are thrown into the open to be appreciated until they dissipate and cease to exist… just like me, you, and everyone else."





	Smoked

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Smoked](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/391832) by CoelhoBoyShiper. 



> Hi there. Two things.  
> 1st: this is a translation of my work originally written in Portuguese (my native language), so pardon me for any possible English misconceptions (beta readers are more than welcome).  
> 2nd: I got inspired into writing this after reading a fan comic by the Tumblr user@ask-826-e, I used their idea of having the characters having a pillow talk and wrote an extended and deeper version of it through Morty's point of view. I hope this is not a problem.  
> Anyway, have a nice read! :)

Sometimes I ask myself how did I end up here.

Trying to adjust the scattered remnants of my memory in a chronological order for better studying where it went wrong it’s a frustrating task. It’s practically like an avalanche — If you have been in one, you know what I’m talking about: it’s only possible to remember of when the snow was falling softly, and when it became a storm; you never entirely understand what happened between those two distinct events that explain such tragedy.

I also don’t understand why I’m trying to find the reason behind the infelicities of my life, it’s not like I care about them… not anymore. Everything in the world is insignificant. If we dispense the mere human conceptions and weaknesses in which we, constantly, insist to rely on (sometimes irrationally), we’ll see, clearly, that the universe is nothing more than a burlesque machine of ends and beginnings that leads to nowhere. What is the use of being born if you are going to die one day regardless of your wills and efforts? What is the use of dying if there will always be someone coming after?

When I was younger, I used to think that which one of us had a special purpose inside this mysterious world in which we’re put in, and that, someday, I would find my own meaning and live the rest of my life fulfilled. But that was a long time ago, before _him_. When _he_ came into my life and everything changed.

The same _he_ which is lying by my side on the bed, still panting and covered with sweat.

The blinds of the motel room are ajar like fine-toothed combs brushing the orange sun locks penetrating into the darkness of my surroundings, highlighting in its light the dust particles that hang in the rancid air. The blanket over my bare chest is soaked with sweat and sperm. The night was long. After all, Citadel is a never-sleeping city.

“Was it worth it…?” even though I’m still physically exhausted, I manage to, besides asking, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it. The smoke rises, making the alcove quickly acquire the tobacco’s fragrance… way better than the usual smell of mold.

“… huh?” Rick hesitates at my question.

“I said: was it worth it?” I raise my tone of voice.

I feel his arms stiffen by my side.

“It… was.” his periods sounds like suspension points.

Now, the silence between us is so intense that I feel like it’s possible for me to see those three dots materializing tangibly in the smoky air.

**. . .**

“Do I look like him?” I can’t hold my doubt back, let alone look at him while I say it.

“What?”

“Your Morty. Do I look like the Morty from your dimension?”

His head moves even farther away from mine before the mattress’ springs creak roughly as he gets seated.

“I would never do _that_ with my Morty.”

I suppress a guffaw. Who is he trying to convince with this? How many times does he think I’ve heard this same speech before? The last thing I am in this business is an amateur.

“It’s what every one of you says,” the fact that the majority of Ricks, beings devoid of outdated human ethics, still repress themselves for feeling physical attraction towards Morties still impresses me. It seems they forget that humans are just animals with natural physiological needs regardless of morals or rules, I reflect, “It’s only sex, for the love of god. Your grandson’s dick it’s the same as anyone’s dick,” I allow myself to curve my lips up into an ironic smirk after another drag. For the first time since we started having sex, I stare at him to better analyze his body. He is reasonably younger than most Ricks are, seems to be under 50 years old. His hairs still preserve much of its color and the body is less wrinkled, not to mention that he uses the vocabulary of someone who barely got out of their twenties. His clothes, which he immediately begins to wear once standing, are also less ‘formal’. “From which dimension are you anyway? Young like this, how old your Morty even is? Seven?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, glances at me after passing his t-shirt over his head. Putting the shoulders behind and elevating his chin, he says:

“What about you? Do you even _have_ a Rick?”

If I were still that little boy who preserved the idea that everyone had a meaning in the world, and was attached to my emotions, the question would probably have torn my heart and made my bowels burn. But, as I said, this was a long, long time ago. So everything I feel is a cozy cold.

“I don’t,” I tap my finger on the cigarette hopper to let the ashes come off from its butt and fly along with the rest of the dust that coruscates in the gusts of light provoked by the blinds. “I’m the Morty from the b-625 dimension. And you?”

After a brief moment of stubbornness and pride, he reveals to me:

“E-214.”

I pause, amused by the amorphous designs provided by the flickering white line emerging from the fire between my fingers. All the smoke provided from cigarettes are indefinite forms that are thrown into the open to be appreciated until they dissipate and cease to exist… just like me, you, and everyone else.

“Hm,” I murmur, hoping he considers that as an answer.

“What happened to your Rick?”

Yeah. It wasn’t enough for him.

 I take the last swallow and stretch my arm towards the bedside table. The ashtray is overflowed with dull butts, leaving no space for a new one, like a small forest of crumpled cylinders. I leave my smoke on top of everything. _I’m still going to clean this_ , I think, even though I’m not really planning a time for doing it.

“I don’t know,” I shrug “He left me. It’s been a while.”

“But how did you end up in here?”

“He sold me,” I answer, pretending not to notice his shoulders falling instantly, “Don’t even ask me why. I assumed it was for drugs or something like that.”

“How old you were?” his gaze widens over me as he bends down to my level to pick up his pants, the belt buckle tinkling. I shot him an eye roll, “I ask this because you’re only fourteen, and you said it was a long time ago.”

“Does it matters?”

“It depends on who are you referring to.”

I have never felt a more scandalous noise than the silence that has now set in.

“It doesn’t matter for _me_.”

He finishes buckling his pants and stands still, staring at me with intentions that in my view are impenetrable.

“Are you giving my money or what?” I retort. I’m already annoyed.

Laconic, Rick reaches into his pocket and pulls a wad of Citadel money out of his wallet, tossing it unpretentiously into the empty space of the bed. As soon as he turns his back on me, pulling his portal gun out of his back pocket, ready to open a passage and get out of this dimension, I remember him sharply:

“You’re forgetting your lab coat,” I crane my neck to indicate that it was crammed by the end of my bed.

“I’m not,” he says and pulls the trigger against the wall of rotting paint, a portal opens over it, a faint greenish light emanating from the seductive undulations of the passageway, bringing me an abominably beloved memory, “keep it… you need it more than I do.”

The dimensional ectoplasm wobbles in his body as Rick steps forward to cross it, consuming him all the way in until it disappears and the passage shrinks into itself, closing forever.

I take time to adjust to what just happened. When I get the recognition that I’m by myself, I crawl to the edge of the bed, pulling the white coat with my fingers to me.

I wear it.

And I get back to sleep.

My memento is short-lived, as a new client — most likely another Rick — presses the bedroom doorbell.

I throw the lab coat under the bed, the money into the drawer of the bedside table, turn the sheets inside out, and say:

“Come in.”

The door opens.

_Sometimes I ask myself how did I end up here._

_Trying to adjust the scattered remnants of my memory in a chronological order for better studying where it went wrong it’s a frustrating task **. . .**_

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, this is a translation. I'm planning on bringing more of my older works (it will probably be about Gravity Falls), so, if you liked this and are interested, you are more than welcome to be my beta reader. Just message me :)  
> Thank you for reading and please leave a comment before leaving!  
> see ya


End file.
